Book 2: Chapter 47: No Respite, No Surrender

Book 2: Chapter 47: No Respite, No Surrender

In a time of the long ago, there was a man who lived happily with his three daughters. All three were graceful and of fair countenance. However, as is the nature of all things born into this world, his end would come to pass. A death vigil was held by his daughters, commencing with the eldest. She maintained an unbroken stoicism, shedding not a tear for him. The dying man asked her, “Why do you not weep?”

“I cannot mourn for those still living,” she answered gracefully.

Next, came the second daughter, and she held his hand as he waited to meet his end. They reminisced about their shared past - the countless joyful days, the painful loss of her mother, his adored wife. Despite the warm nostalgia of their shared memories, he observed a striking absence of tears in her eyes.

“Why do you not weep?” he asked.

"I cannot mourn someone who will find peace in a better place," she replied, concealing her true emotions behind a serene facade.

Finally, it was time for the youngest, his cherished child and the joy of his existence, to bid him farewell.

“Why do you not weep?” he asked.

She remained standing, her face etched with a maelstrom of rage and subtle delight.

“I cannot mourn you, for bitter joy fills my heart. I hate you with all of my being,” she spat, her words scalding with rage.

"What has filled your heart with such anger against me, my dear? What have I done to deserve your scorn?" he implored pleadingly, in a beggar’s tone.

To my chagrin, the long-dead warrior’s jilted movements were slowly turning smoother, as if up until now had been nothing more than a warmup, a rehearsal. Great, just what I need, I thought bitterly as the skeleton closed within striking distance again.

But just as the creature's movements became more natural, so too did my understanding of it. There was an almost mechanical pattern in its strikes. A high cut followed a low, which was, in turn, followed mysteriously by a wide swing of its other arm, which struck nothing but air. This last move in the sequence was important, as it gave me an opportunity to launch an attack of my own. With the insights gained through battle and my rigorous instruction under the overly-zealous Cordelia, I realized, none too late, that the dumb thing was swinging a shield it no longer possessed.

I was, in essence, fighting a machine. An undead machine, but a machine nonetheless. No matter how advanced, or magically-enhanced, there is no spell or line of code that can replace real human ingenuity.

Waiting for it to play this sequence, I launched a disciplined probing attack of my own that connected. I struck across its collarbone, and there was the dissonant clash of metal on metal. The shock ran up my arm, and I was utterly dumbfounded, for I had been expecting to cut deep into the bone. Barely able to parry its next stroke, I cursed my luck.

The thing before me was more than just a skeleton warrior. It was a damnable metal skeleton warrior. My cursed Luck! When it rained in my life, it truly poured misery.

It was time to try a new line of attack. Shifting my grip, I wielded my sword reversed, like a hammer in the ‘mordhau,’ the murder-stroke. However, unlike other blades, my weapon was designed to be used in such a way, and the Azag-Gishban felt solid and sure in my hand.

Predictably, like clockwork or the turning of the tides, the opening I had been waiting for came. With a resounding roar that surprised even me, I burst through the opening in the skeleton’s guard and launched a Power Strike at its hand. My blow smashed the skeletal digits of its hand, and magical or not, it was still bound by the laws of physics. The khopesh flew from its grip, clanging against rock somewhere in the purple murk. I had been foolish taking on the unliving monstrosity with the edge of my blade. The undead were always more susceptible to blunt attacks.

Flailing wildly at me, with weapons it no longer possessed, it did not seem so fearsome now. I took my time dismantling it, taking no small amount of joy in the process, repeatedly using Power Strike to cave in the metal. I burst through its knee with the hammer head of my weapon, disabling it for the greater part. Finally, I lifted my unstoried sword and caved in its metallic skull with a final Power Strike, the weight of my fear and hate lending strength to my blow.

I was panting, my body and mind feeling like they had been through the nine circles of hell. In a state of fear-driven frenzy, I had ignored the ‘cooldown’ on Power Strike, causing it to burn through exponentially more Stamina than it would have done otherwise. Though my Stamina was prodigious—monstrously so—it was not without its limits.

Just as I was going through the slew of notifications that praised me for my latest triumph, I began to hear the sound of eerie clanking footsteps coming ever closer. There was no respite for the wicked.